I think it was a Friday night when my parents announced that they had something important to say. That's right, "I think" because I was obviously to preoccupied in shoving anything and everything even a deprived homeless child would consider "fun" in a messy pile underneath the mattress of my bed.

I ripped my earphones from my ears, but the stupid things insisted on clinging to my long dangling chandelier-like earrings, so I halfway ripped off my ear off in the process, cursing loudly to myself as I shoved, that too, into my mini hiding place. And no, I mean the earphones. I didn't rip my ear off and shove that under my mattress because that would be so creepy. I'm not Vincent van Gogh.

I smoothed out my hair, pulled out my textbooks, and smiled brightly like the stereotypical Asian kid every normal parent would love to have, ignoring the growing pile of stuff beneath a 5 inch mattress and my . My mother peeked in her petite head from the monster-huge door (Her head looked insanely tiny compared to the door, so as per usual, I'm exaggerating) to inform me that my father had something to say, not sparing me even a small amused glance. Not even one word of praise as usual.

I almost wanted to yell at her. We're in America. We've been in America my whole life. It's not like it's traditional here to be a little angel. In fact, it seems to be more of a tradition to be a lazy retarded kid, and if we're speaking in terms of my prissy private school kids, then a snobbish I'm-too-good-for-the-world attitude would socially suit me better. You see, any normal parent would jump for joy at the sight. "Hey, look dear, Johnny is reading a book! Can you believe it? A BOOK! Hallelujah! Praise the lord!" But all I get is, "Kimi-chan, your father has something to say," then a disgusted look, "And sit straighter. That is unlady-like." Oh right, dear mother, I forgot that you don't have a soul. Please excuse poor me.

And of course, since every word of my father's was a law (My mother obviously had no say in our family due to a long line of ism in our ancestors) I dragged my sorry down the stairs, and seated myself traditional style- knees folded perfectly underneath me, hands settled on my lap, aligned in the same manner, with my heels to my . In case any of you haven't sat this way before, let me tell you, after sitting for hours and hours stiff, the ability to move or fidget even slightly torn from your very grasp, it hurts. It hurts like hell.

As I was internally grumbling and whining immaturely to myself, Mr. Stone-face, a.k.a. my father, began to speak. It was only a matter of time before his proper Japanese turned into total Greek to me. So I just sat there with a blank poker face as always, trying to analyze and assess his very words.

"As you know, you are almost 18,"

Blah blah blah

"I have discussed and decided what is right for you,"

Yeah, like you don't always just magically decide right things for me that also seem to benefit you in some way

"And we have found some very nice candidates,"

Candidates? What? Whatever. Just go with the flow, Kimi. It'll all be over before you know it.

"for your arranged marriage."

Right. Arranged marriage. The thought rolled into my mind casually, but it only took seconds before my red blood cells spoke to me and reminded me that I had a foreign thought running through my system, and the annihilate switch needed to be pulled.

Arranged marriage? Arranged marriage?! What the-

"What the fudge?" I exclaimed. I could hear my tone raise a pitch my voice faltering and cracking shortly afterwards at the immense shock. If only my puny little brain could actually render the situation at hand. The concept was still foreign to me even as I began my inner ranting and overreacting towards something I couldn't even fully grasp. "What marriage? I never agreed to this? I never even-"

Within mere seconds, Mr. Stone-face turned into Mr. Grouchy, as he shot me the harshest glare in the history of glares. That's a lot of temperature dropping glares, my dear friends. And for everyone who isn't native in the language of silent threats, an old Japanese father's glare can roughly translate to: You best be sitting your down an closing that annoying pie-hole of yours', or I will make you regret having been born.

You can probably guess what I did next. I hid back into the shell of an angel child that I always pretended to be for my parents.

“Gomenasai, otousan.” I breathed quietly in my mouse-like voice, shivering slightly at the tension in the room. My father closed his eyes and exhaled, obviously irritated at his no-good daughter. As thick silence filled the room, I attempted to amuse myself by imagining him with black horns and fire shooting from his nostrils.

“This is what we’ve decided for you. Please understand that it’s for the best.” My mother calmly rubbed my hand, throwing on the same empty poker face, to which I twitched in annoyance. However, she immediately stopped when my father stepped in to yell some loud Japanese at her. It was something about not letting me face my own future, and how I was always becoming so ungrateful because she never let me handle my own problems. Who knows? That guy just likes to find excuses to yell at people.

“But this isn’t fair to me, okaasan. I never even knew about-“

“Ishikawa Kimi,” The booming voice resonated all throughout the huge traditional-style home, shaking the bamboo folding screen a bit. Or maybe that was just my imagination as I seemed to have a love for hyperbole and exaggerations. “Know your place.”

“Yes father.” I sheepishly returned to my silent position, hanging my head in apology. With burning cheeks, I waited for my death sentence. I could already tell that it was going to be just lovely. Much sarcasm intended.

“You are to leave this household next week.” My body tensed, incomprehensible phrases running through my ears, and a weird beating sensation running through my veins like a drum. It all felt so surreal. I could hear the words, but couldn’t make sense to them. It didn’t make any sense that I could live in this household for over 17 years of life, and one day just be sent off to marry some guy that I may or may not even know.

Frozen in place, my pleading eyes met my father’s. He read me like a book, answering the question that was racing through my mind, yet got stuck somewhere in my parched throat throughout the processing of the information.

“Seoul. You should be familiar with the Park family, are you not?”

And the world stopped.

God, please kill me now.